


Letting Go

by horizon_greene



Category: Basketball RPF, NBA RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:38:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horizon_greene/pseuds/horizon_greene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve hears the news a week later via Twitter, in a hotel room in Los Angeles on the eve of the Western Conference Finals, which he decides is an appropriately detached way to find out such things about the man you occasionally fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> Set during and immediately following the 2010 Western Conference Semifinals between the Phoenix Suns and San Antonio Spurs.
> 
> This takes place in the same universe as shadow_shimmer's ["Win, Lose or Break"](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=shadow_shimmer&keyword=My%20NBA%20Slash&filter=all) series, and was written with her permission.

Steve doesn’t really believe in curses or self-fulfilling prophecies, but after so many years, so many star-crossed series that turned on one disastrous event, it’s hard not to notice the pattern. He presses a hand to the newly-inflicted gash above his eye as he jogs to the locker room. Here it is again, this year, _this_ series, the Inevitable Terrible Thing. His palm comes away sticky and wet, and he has flashbacks to another time, a different injury—blood that couldn’t be stopped, a lost game and a ruined chance that he’s never truly gotten over. 

He pushes down the dread threatening at the edge of his mind. The team’s come too far this time—played too well—for things to slip away now. Steve refuses to let it happen again.

But by the time the trainer finishes stitching the wound closed, Steve’s eye is swollen shut and Phoenix’s 11-point lead is a memory.

He’s not sure he can play like this, but once he gets back in the game, instinct takes over and Steve leans on the muscle memory that comes from decades of playing between the baselines, that innate sense of where he is on the basketball court, all the moving pieces and how they fit together. It’s still a struggle to play when his vision is this obscured, and Steve misses shots, but he makes others—makes enough—and in the end the Spurs fall to the Suns. 

The game—and the series—belongs to Phoenix.

He embraces one Spur after another, accepting their congratulations and their well-wishes, passed from person to person until it’s Manu’s turn. And suddenly it’s like it’s 2005 again—the bruises on Steve’s skin, the way Manu stands so, so close to murmur against his ear. Steve begins to shake as Manu touches his hair and then his chest, watching it all unfold through his one good eye.

\---

Three days later, he gets a text.

Steve sees that it’s from Manu and ignores it for a while. He’s been very busy the last few years with his team and his endorsement deals and his family and the slow, inexorable disintegration of his marriage. There hasn’t been much opportunity for Steve to ponder his _other_ failed relationships, and Manu seems like an unnecessary distraction right now, especially when things are just starting to settle down and fall into place—Alejandra keeping the house and the girls, Steve moving into the new eco-friendly condo in the foothills. 

He’d been certain he and Manu were finished, anyway, after all this time—but when he finally looks at the message, there it is: a hotel and a room number and an invitation. 

Steve knows it isn’t a coincidence that this is happening now. He’s never beaten Manu, not like this. For the first time, Steve isn’t the bitter, defeated one, and maybe Manu still has something left to prove. 

\---

Maybe there’s still something left for Steve, too, because here he is, in the hallway outside Manu’s room, knocking on the door at the chosen hour. His fingers gingerly trace his right eyebrow as he waits. He’s never been particularly vain, but the eye—with the jagged line of stitches and the swelling and the rainbow of discoloration spreading beneath the skin—well, it’s kind of a lot.

If Manu wanted a pretty boy, though, they would never have started this in the first place, and Manu doesn’t waste much time when he opens the door; he looks Steve over, briefly, and then takes his arm and pulls him inside.

It’s a little dark in Manu’s room, intermittent flashes of light from the television and an orange haze creeping around the edges of the curtains, but not much else. Then Manu’s hand is on his face, and Steve startles at the contact.

“You look very dramatic, Nash,” Manu says. “You are okay?”

There’s a flurry of dialogue in the background, and Steve recognizes the sounds of Alejandra’s favorite telenovela. He wonders if Manu’s always been a fan of soap operas.

“It’s not the first time,” Steve reminds him.

Manu tilts his head slightly. They both know he’s not just talking about what’s happened on the court.

“Of course not,” Manu says, half-smiling. He taps the back of his fingers against Steve’s cheek. “You always could take a hit.”

Steve closes his eyes, briefly, thinking of other nights, other times Manu has had his hands on him.

“I can’t stay very long,” Manu continues, fingering the collar of Steve’s t-shirt now. “I have to get back.”

Steve nods. Manu doesn’t elaborate, and they really don’t need to talk about it. He heard the news months ago, and he’s seen the photos of Manu’s wife. Even the TV announcers have been counting down the final days of Marianela’s pregnancy. The fact that Manu is here at all is an irresponsible, reckless thing—but then, this entire affair has been pretty damn reckless, so Steve doesn’t see why more kids should change anything.

Manu apparently agrees, because he backs Steve into the wall, and then they’re kissing like two lovers who haven’t seen each other in years.

\---

It _has_ been years, Steve calculates later as he works his mouth down Manu’s cock. Four years since the last time, since 2006, when the Suns could have—should have—won the title, when Steve didn’t have to go through San Antonio, didn’t have to fight _that_ fight, and Phoenix still lost in the Western Conference Finals to Dallas.

But that entire series and everything surrounding it—Manu and Dirk and losing, on so many levels—is an old wound. Steve only thinks about it for a moment before he lets it go again, because that was then and this is now, and Steve has a new and precious chance to win a championship.

Manu left the lights off, and honestly, Steve’s glad. They’ve both seen better days—days when Manu had more hair, Steve less blows to the face—and the silvery dim glow from the television is enough to show a path across Manu’s skin, not that Steve needs to see much to remember how to take him deep.

Manu is sucking him at the same time, their bodies curled together on the bed. Manu’s hands are all over him—on his hips, sliding up the inside of his thigh, then pressing further back, and Steve moans.

But he knows that Manu didn’t invite him here just to sixty-nine quietly in the dark, and he’s ready when Manu stops tonguing his balls and reaches down, pushing Steve’s mouth off of him, and then rolls him onto his back.

There was a time, back in the beginning, when Steve might’ve put up some token resistance to Manu shoving him around and touching him like he owns him, when he might’ve been ashamed of the noises he makes after Manu parts his legs and gets his fingers inside him. But he knows Manu loves it and wants him to be loud, and anyway, aside from a single alcohol-blurred All Star night in Vegas, there’s hasn’t been another guy since Manu and there’s no point in pretending like he’s not dying for some cock.

It’s difficult, though, when they actually start to fuck, because it’s been a long time and Manu’s never exactly been gentle. Steve curses under his breath as Manu pushes in, and Manu braces himself on his elbows and swears right back at him. They work against each other, uncoordinated and rough, grabbing and pulling and yanking. 

Then they knock their knees together, hard enough that Steve winces, and they both stop, staring at each other and breathing hard. And then Manu does something that catches him off guard, letting his body gradually settle onto Steve’s, bringing their mouths together. 

It gets easier, after that. Everything smoothes out—they kiss slowly, and fuck slowly, and it’s so good that Steve spreads his legs wide, letting Manu in.

Manu hooks an arm under Steve’s knee, opening him up and shifting him around until he can get in deep, get the angle just right, and Steve moans at the sheer aching pleasure of it.

“You should see yourself, Nash,” Manu breathes, mouth against Steve’s ear. “Getting fucked, going crazy.” He pulls back and slides his hands up Steve’s arms, pinning his wrists against the sheets. “I bet I don’t even have to touch you.”

Steve swallows around the noise that rises in his throat, and then he struggles, just a little—just to feel his skin burn when Manu tightens his grip.

“Fuck you,” Steve says, but there’s no conviction behind it. He’s already gone, legs wrapping around Manu’s hips, and when Manu leans down to kiss him, Steve tilts his face up into it.

He has to work for it now, arching his back and pushing into Manu’s thrusts. It’s slow this way, teasing, and he makes small, frustrated sounds against Manu’s mouth. But Manu knows how to get him there better than anyone, and eventually the expert, relentless fucking starts to get to Steve. It makes him hyper-aware, suddenly, of certain things—the stretch between his legs, the heat of Manu’s cock, the pressure deep inside. 

He breaks the kiss, gasping, and looks between their bodies, watches himself come all over both of them.

Manu’s not done, though, and after a minute Steve instinctively begins to twist away, uncomfortable and far too sensitive, but Manu doesn’t let up.

“Take it,” Manu orders, holding him down, and Steve shudders at the command and the restraint, shutting his eyes and letting his head roll to the side. Manu kisses the exposed curve of his neck, and Steve’s focus narrows to that spot, to Manu’s mouth against his skin, his lips and tongue and the sharp edge of teeth as he comes. Steve listens to him groan and wonders if the bite has left a mark.

Afterwards, Steve is shaking. His palms are damp with sweat, and he curls his fingers down as far as he can, the tips just barely brushing against Manu’s hands. Manu exhales against Steve’s neck and lets go of his wrists, lacing their fingers together.

“I dreamed of this, Nash, after game four. After you beat us,” Manu says. His voice is hoarse; they’re both still breathing hard. “I don’t like to dream about things I can’t have.”

Steve thinks about all of the charmed accomplishments in Manu’s life: the Olympic gold, the NBA championships, the happy family—areas where Steve has tried and failed. And now that Manu’s decided he wants him again, Manu’s had Steve, too, just that easy. It pisses him off.

“Have you ever wanted something and _not_ gotten it?” Steve asks, and, well, that sounds petulant.

Manu lifts his head and gives Steve a long look.

“I’ve never been the best at anything. Never been MVP of the fuckin’ league.”

Steve isn’t sure what surprises him more—the realization that he’s never once stopped to consider Manu’s dreams and aspirations, or the fact that the envy he’s long felt toward Manu actually goes both ways. It’s a revelation, and a small but not insignificant understanding of Manu quietly shifts into place.

\---

Later, Steve pulls a pillow under his chin and watches Manu pick his clothes up off the floor and get dressed. Their eyes meet as Manu runs his hands over his hair, still dark and damp from the shower, and he comes to stand next to the bed, next to Steve. 

Manu grasps the sheet and slowly tugs it down until Steve’s completely exposed. For a moment, Steve wishes he were the kind of guy who could arch and curve his body into sexy, alluring shapes. But he’s not—he’s the kind of guy who just kind of lays there—but Manu appears pleased enough with Steve’s graceless, sprawled-out pose.

Manu’s fingers slide along his hip, and then up his side. “If I had more time…” he starts, gently rubbing Steve’s skin. “But I have to go.”

“Yeah,” Steve mumbles, watching Manu lean down to him and accepting the kiss he offers. He’s relieved, actually, that this won’t turn into a heavy, lingering encounter. He can’t afford to spend weeks on end with Manu, like he once did, because for the first time, Steve has shit to do. He has the series against the Lakers to play, and then afterwards, maybe the Finals.

Maybe a ring.

So he lets Manu go, and then he lets himself fall asleep in the empty bed.

\---

**@manuginobili**   
_Dante & Nicola were born this am! Mom and the kids r doing great. We r SOOO happy! I'll keep u guys posted._

Steve hears the news a week later via Twitter, in a hotel room in Los Angeles on the eve of the Western Conference Finals, which he decides is an appropriately detached way to find out such things about the man you occasionally fuck.

It seems like astronomical odds that they’d both be fathers of twins, in the end. Steve briefly wonders if it’s more or less improbable than two NBA superstars carrying on a clandestine S&M relationship for nearly half a decade, but he’s not sure there’s any point in actually calculating the numbers. Besides, he has other things to think about, like transition defense and Kobe’s jumper and how they might exploit Bynum on the pick-and-roll.

He types out a reply, adding his congratulations to the mix, but he keeps it brief. He’s already moving on, his mind shifting to the new series, the new game at hand.

**@the_real_nash**   
_@manuginobili Felicidades._


End file.
